*Author’s Note: For the sake of privacy, I refer to our foster daughter with the pronouns she/her throughout this essay rather than with her name.
One of the things they neglected to tell us in foster care training was that a lot of times you don’t get picked. A phone call comes in from our agency. I pause for a moment taking a quick inventory of the current chaos in our home to determine whether or not this is a good time to add another child but then remember there is never a convenient time to foster so I answer the phone. A Youth Specialist from our agency tells me about the referral—the age and sex, and anything they know about the child’s development and home situation. Sometimes they read paragraphs of information; sometimes it’s three sentences. And then they need an answer. I remember the first time we said yes. It was in regards to a three-day-old boy, and my mind was already in a flurry of all things newborn before I was even off the phone. What I didn’t realize was at the exact moment I was saying yes, agencies all over the city were also calling their foster parents with the same referral. Anyone willing to take this three-day-old had their profile submitted to the county, and the county made a decision from there. We did not get picked for the three-day-old.
We said yes to a four-year-old girl who had been found wandering the streets. They didn’t pick us.
We said yes to a three-week-old boy who had been brought to the hospital for a procedure and the parents were nowhere to be found. They didn’t pick us.
I lost count of the times we said yes. There were even phone calls I didn’t tell Stephen about because I was so sure we wouldn’t get picked.
One Friday morning in January, I got a call about a two-year-old girl. I said yes, but a couple hours later found out we hadn't been picked. That same Friday afternoon, the same Youth Specialist from our agency called with another referral for an 11-month-old girl. She laughed and said something like “well, let’s try again.” With an edge of silliness in my voice I said, “Sure, put our name in.” It was at least an hour later that I peeked into Stephen’s office. He was on a call so I mouthed the words “I said yes to a 1 year-old girl.” We both gave the same look of been there done that before, confident we knew how this would end.
I took the kids to the zoo earlier that day to see the March of the Penguins, the winter event where the emperor penguins literally march around the zoo, and for a moment you think all is right in the world because a penguin on leash just waved to you. I was back home making hot chocolate when I saw the agency’s number pop up on my phone again.
No. There’s no way. It must be another referral.
“Hi Joy. Guess what? They finally picked you guys.”
*****
Our darling foster daughter arrived later that night with a single small bag. She was with us for a month when I received a text message from the county caseworker telling me they found a relative to take over her care; she would be leaving the next day, her first birthday. I felt gutted, even a hint of anger creeping in. I immediately reigned in those feelings. This was the gig. Temporary. Filling the gap. Probably best to learn this quickly before we all got too attached.
As we told our children the news, Stephen and I reminded them this was a good thing. It is wonderful when a relative can step in. It will be better for her to see family more and be somewhere familiar. Right? I started gathering her things to repack that same small bag when Charlotte ran into the room—the room she had rearranged to make space for a crib and a new roommate—and she sat on her bed crying big tears, the kind of tears that only come from loss.
“I thought she was going to be here for at least three months!” she managed between sobs. Note to self: never let your children overhear the caseworker give his best guess as to how long a foster child will be with you.
We laid on her bed and cried together, and I fought every voice in my head telling me foster care might be a mistake. Isn’t there enough hard stuff in the world? Did I really just sign our family up for more hard, more loss, more tears? Yes. That’s exactly what I did.
“The reason this is so hard is because you love her. And even though it feels really hard and really yucky right now, it’s a good thing to love the kids that come into our home.”
*****
It was Tuesday morning, a few weeks later, and I was side-by-side with Andrew finishing up school. My phone vibrated on the table, and I saw our agency’s number come through. Oh boy. Here we go again. Am I ready to do this again?
“Hi Joy. Well, the kinship placement hasn’t worked out, and she needs to leave there today. Would you guys be willing to have her come back to you?”
Stephen was in the kitchen refilling his coffee. I moved the phone away from my mouth and whispered her name. “She needs to come back.”
The kids quickly figured out what was going on and erupted in praise, jumping and screaming with excitement. “She’s coming back! She’s coming back!” Stephen and I exchanged a look heavy with thoughts and questions.
“It’s ok to be excited to see her again, but we need to remember that she is coming back because something didn't work out at her family’s home, and that is really sad.”
*****
Everyday we grow more committed, working with doctors and therapists and caseworkers to make the best decisions for this little girl. Everyday we grow more invested, connecting with her mom and praying for that relationship to develop. Everyday we grow more attached, smitten with this darling’s little grin and silly laugh. She’s joining right in, exploring parks with us and being strapped onto my back for family hikes. She traveled with us to Chicago for Easter, and she celebrated Milo’s 3rd birthday with us, easily winning the award for eating the most birthday pancakes. She sits on my lap during swim lessons and soccer games. She pulls all the Tupperware out of the drawer and knows which button to press to start the record player. But there is a constant tug of war inside of me—I want to be all in, but maybe I need to be careful. She starts to feel like family, but maybe I need to back off. I pour myself out in that beautiful and exhausting way mothers do all the time, but maybe I need to watch out. Hasn’t life shown me that the hard things I pour into tend to burrow deep into my heart in a way that sticks? Maybe I need to love with caution.
How do I do that? And how do I help my children do that?
Is it possible to love with caution knowing from day 1 this relationship will end with me—and my children—in tears? Love with caution. Is that what we should be doing?
“Mom, I hope we can bring her to the pool with us this summer!” Andrew says. A spark of excitement jolts me. Oh, that would be so fun. Stop. Be careful.
“I bet she’d love the pool, but remember, she might be back with her mom by summer time,” I remind him—and myself. There. Another attempt to guard our hearts and ground us in reality.
“Once she leaves, do you think her mom will ever let her come back and visit us?” Charlotte asks. Oh, I wonder if she would. Stop. Back off.
“No hun. Once she goes back to her mom, we won't get to see her again.”
A blunt answer. I want no false hope, no misunderstanding. We are here to fill a gap. We are not the ones who get to see how her story unfolds.
But love with caution? No. That can’t be it. That doesn’t feel right. It seems like a ridiculous way to love a child. Instead, I will trust that because God chose us for this task, he equips us to do the totally-in-over-our-heads-work of foster care right now, and He will not abandon us when the sting of her absence leaves us crying big tears. I guess that means I’m all in. Connected. Attached. Head-over-heels for this little girl.
It seems like the only way to do this.